It was some time in April. It was very hot. I had put in a couple of hours of work in my air-cooled office which I had heavily curtained against the glare of daylight. (I read and wrote under the orb-light of an anglepoise lamp). Suddenly the electric current was cut off: those days as now this was a frequent occurrence in Delhi. For a while I waited in the stifling dark, then decided to call it a day. It was noon with a dust-laden grey sky and a scorching hot wind blowing more dust. I drove onto the Ridge Road. Through clusters of waving sesbania I could see a dense pack of houses on either side. But no signs of life, not even a kite wheeling in the sky. A hundred yards or so ahead of me I saw two cyclists struggling against the wind. And beyond them what appeared to be a body stretched halfway across the shimmering tarmac. I saw the cyclists stare at the body, hesitate a little, and then push on. I pulled up on the side. The cyclists turned back.

It was a woman lying with her arms and legs stretched out as if crucified. Her eyes were half-open; a little froth and blood trickled down her mouth. There was a damp patch beside her sari. I looked at her bosom to see if she was breathing: the flapping of the sari made it difficult to be sure. ‘Is she dead?’ I asked the cyclists who had joined me.

They peered into the woman’s face. ‘Mirgee (epileptic fit)!’ exclaimed one of them. He found a twig and thrust it between the woman’s teeth. ‘That will stop her from biting her tongue.’ He took off one of his shoes and placed it on the woman’s face. ‘This is the best thing for mirgee . . . the smell of old leather.’

I noticed the woman’s bosom heave. It was a very small, almost non-existent bosom, encased in a cheap, printed, artificial silk blouse. What else did I notice? Feet, very black. Toe-nails painted bright crimson. Inside of the palms stained with henna. Very short and somewhat plump. About twenty and altogether too dark to be considered attractive by Indian standards. The little I could see of her face was pitted with pock-marks.

‘What is she doing on the Ridge by herself?’ I asked.

‘Only the Guru knows!’ exclaimed one of the cyclists.

‘These are bad times,’ said the other. He removed his shoe from the woman’s face and slipped it on his foot. ‘She’ll be all right in a few minutes.’ Then without giving me a chance to say anything the two rode off.

The woman began to moan and shake her head. She raised her hand and drew a circle with her finger.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked her.